England is very good at certain things. Garden centres, Percy Pigs, roast dinners, obscene snobbery, cricket. Bunting, newspapers, pointless celebrities, horses, literature.
Hmm what else?
If this is global warming, I’m unimpressed.
Usually I put up with the rain. But this is below the belt. You can’t give a country a week of beautiful weather, only to remove it and replace it with winter. I’m not even talking drizzle. I’m talking rain that takes only three minutes to completely soak you to the skin. Howling winds that wake you up at night. How’s that fair? Ten days ago, I was sitting in my garden, collecting freckles.
There are only two things for it.
One. Find pyjamas. Put them on. Grab Dachshund. Find sofa. Snuggle. Watch a film. If Dan isn’t home, get away with watching one of the ‘forbidden films’.
That sounds exciting. It’s really not. There are a few films I like to watch again and again. Dan doesn’t understand it. I find it comforting to have them playing in the background.
The Family Stone. When Harry Met Sally. Run Fatboy Run. Clueless. Legally Blonde. Bridget Jones’ Diary.
I could go on.
Films that you know all the words to. Films that, when they are put on, you actually barely watch. But films that were made for wet days.
Two. Book a holiday. To the hottest place you can think of.
I may have booked a trip to Marrakech.
Would it be completely insane if I had based my choice of hotel on the fact that the owners have two Dachshunds…?